


the picture peeled the person, they let themselves divide

by orphan_account



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Hanahaki Disease, Love Confessions, M/M, alastors kinda fuckin stupid, its fine tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21829147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: as alastor watches angel dust retreat back to his suite, his chest starts to thrum with pain. when he breathes in, he hears pops from deep within his lungs.ugh. weather.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 315





	the picture peeled the person, they let themselves divide

**Author's Note:**

> stonks

the first petal gets stuck at the back of his throat, on his tongue, when he was having his usual useless go-around with angel. alastor opened his mouth to say something, and then coughed. he coughed some more, squinted, and popped his jaw apart to reach past his fangs and dig around with a clawed, gloved finger. angel visibly winced at the sound it made, and he probably would've laughed if he hadn't had a finger shoved into the back of his throat. 

his nail catches on the very end of the thing, and with a gurgle of discomfort, he dragged it forward across his tongue and out of his mouth. it was a small rose petal, a shade of distinct pink, akin to the color of angel dust's eyes. they had both stared at it with distinct confusion, alastor pondering as to how it had got there in the first place and angel mostly just being deeply grossed out by alastor's ability to unhinge his jaw and also the fact that he has petals in his throat. alastor walked over to flick it into a trash can and wipe his finger off with a handkerchief. there was nothing else said. it was a strange moment of a clear boundary that angel did not cross, in which he stared at alastor for a long while before bidding him a very awkward goodnight and scurrying off into the hallway.

angel was a strange, strange individual. he was riddled with trauma and guilt and self-hatred. he felt significantly more than he was willing to let on, and alastor had not been able to completely ignore his more genuine sides. it was always softer moments of the day; dusk, when the hotel became quiet and everyone was settling in for the night, angel miserable with insomnia and just happening to run into alastor while roaming the hotel restlessly. dawn, when angel is half-asleep and alastor has just managed to energize himself, when they pass each other in the kitchen and strike up quiet conversations that distinctly lack pointed advances or obnoxious flirting.

alastor had even heard him cry, a few times. sometimes so hard he'd have to get up and walk to the bathroom attached to his suite, to curl over the toilet and wretch until he'd vomit through all of the tears. it made him considerably more uncomfortable than he could understand. such things were usually entertaining, but the raw, unfiltered misery of angel's nights spent bawling were a bit too much, considering how he'd come to know him and his softer edges.

as alastor watches angel dust retreat back to his suite, his chest starts to thrum with pain. when he breathes in, he hears pops from deep within his lungs.

ugh. weather.

it isn't the weather. actually, it only gets worse.

what starts off as one or two petals found lodged in his throat every few days, accompanied by a vaguely uncomfortable cough and fluid-filled lungs, becomes clumps. the pain in his chest, tight and oppressive, becomes worse when he's in the hotel; worse still when he's around angel dust. alastor swears that he can taste the metallic tang of blood, sweet with rot, at the back of his mouth, but nothing actually comes out with the petals when he has moments alone to sufficiently cough them up into a napkin. 

they were all pink- they ranged from soft, nursery pink to something a bit deeper, closer to the color of flush on skin. begonias, astillbe, carnations, dahlias, peonies, bitterbloom. petals upon petals of all different kinds of flowers, all carrying a varying pink hue.

angel dust being the catalyst is an odd, odd thing. he recognized it. it didn't take that long, because alastor was not stupid. whenever angel would reach out and brush his arm, tap him on the shoulder, or get just a little too close in all of his incessant propositioning, his sternum would feel like it'd been crushed into itself and his chest would fill with something watery. he'd feel the powdery taste of flower petals at the back of his throat, on the base of his tongue, before he'd excuse himself to go choke them all up.

it's odd. there's no reason for angel dust's presence, or company, to be doing this to him. angel, as far as he knew, had no afflictions of any kind (at least none that made him vomit up flower petals) that he could have spread to alastor. angel seemed fine. he'd never heard him complain of dryness in his throat, or the aftertaste of blood following him around everywhere, no matter what he ate.

it's a while before other people start to notice. though alastor's generally elusive behavior is no surprise, he's struck with a rather sudden coughing fit in the lobby, when angel re-enters the building from a visit to his loathed studio. all eyes turn to him as he tries and fails to muffle the hacking behind a clenched fist against his mouth, face twisted in discomfort as he wretches petals into his mouth behind those closed teeth.

"al?" angel asks, approaching immediately. charlie's expression mirrors the concern. vaggie looks unimpressed, and husk looks as confused as ever. he holds a hand out to keep him at bay, at least, and angel stops in his tracks, holding all of his hands up, "you okay? y'need some water, or-"

alastor clears his throat harshly, swallowing the flower petals back as much as he can muster. the rest he shoves into the sides of his cheeks as he nods and readjusts himself, "i'm well enough, angel. do tell me, though- how was your trip to the studio?"

angel squints at him. he's unconvinced, but he starts talking anyways. alastor decides not to concern himself with it for much longer. if it comes down to it, he can just call in a favor for some information.

alastor catches himself entertaining the thought that angel is pretty just before he starts choking on a bigger clump of petals and blood.

he is, really. alastor has never been one to admire physical appearance, but he can certainly appreciate aesthetics. angel's fur was immaculately groomed, and he always smelled of something sweet. he showered every day, from what alastor could gather, and kept those fangs as white as he could. the clothes he wore were generally well-ironed and free of most wrinkles. he looked good. alastor found himself unnaturally drawn to the color of his eyes, and their gentle pink hue-

the scent of blood hits him before the coughing, but he's doubled over soon enough, hand shoved firmly into his chest as he gags, wet and hollow and forceful. he grabs the arm of the nearest sofa to steady himself, and from across the room, angel whirls around. 

"al-" he places fat nuggets on the ground with unsteady gentleness and crosses the room in a remarkably small amount of steps. he reaches out, but alastor makes haste to brush his hand away before he has to bring it to his mouth again, "jesus fuckin' christ- are you okay? y'sound like you're fuckin' dyin' again."

his voice is insistent. alastor knows that tone; it's the voice angel takes up when he's conscious about the amount of concern he's revealing, but too worried to pay that much attention to it. the idea that angel is worried about him, has been fretting over him, makes the coughing twice as worse. it wracks his frame and sends his legs out from underneath him. angel reaches out without hesitating to catch him around the waist.

it proves to be a poor decision, because as soon as angel makes contact with him, alastor stop being able to keep the damn things in his mouth. he sputters and coughs and heaves until the petals come pouring out from those opened fangs, some catching on the edges of his teeth. it's violent. they escape in droves, clumped together with spit and blood. he grabs onto angel without thinking, searching for any kind of support he can to stand up straight on pure instinct alone. angel, surprisingly steeled, lets him.

"cazzo, lo stai ottenendo- continua ad andare-" angel's frantic above him, cooing something shakily in italian as alastor practically throws up flora all over his suit. from the flowers comes the blood, as he feels it arrive in a thick stream over his tongue. he realizes he's lost the energy to stop it.

alastor wrenches himself away form angel to shove the back of his hand against his mouth as blood streams from the edges and smears across his lips and teeth. angel doesn't let him go, though, holding onto him for dear life. alastor's shoulders tremble. angel's eyes are blown wide with shock. he looks genuinely, truly shaken, terrified, even. and maybe, if things were the way they should be, alastor would have laughed.

"this ain't-" his breath hitches, and tears brim at his eyes. alastor has the sudden impulse to wipe them away with his thumb, "al, this shit doesn't happen. how long 's this been goin' on?"

"i really am fine, angel-"

"like fuck you are. jesus- you just coughed up petals 'n blood 'n god fuckin' knows what else all over me. that's, mind you, after you fell over 'cause you were coughin' so hard you couldn't stand up!"

angel's hands are tight against him, now. alastor pauses for a moment, takes in the state angel's in, before sighing and gently prying his hands away with his own trembling fingers.

"i do suppose you're right," he clears his throat, and winces, "this is...abnormal."

"we can talk to, uh- charlie. she probably knows people, right? right. okay. you're gonna be fine. you ain't dyin' again."

they tell charlie. nothing happens fast. it takes her quite a while to get in contact with anyone who has any knowledge of underworldly diseases. by the end of the week, it's become a regular thing for alastor to start hacking up petals and blood right onto angel dust, who's always there to grab him and keep him steady or lower him to the ground if he really couldn't do it. sometimes, in the aftermath, they'd stay on the floor. they'd stay on the floor, alastor slumped in angel's tight embrace, and they wouldn't speak.

angel panics so sweetly for him. it makes alastor's heart ache with a yearning he's not quite sure he's ever felt before. it also gives him a swimming headache and another batch of flowers, but alas.

alastor coughs up a whole, complete spiderlily into angel's hand. it was suffocating him, lodged there in his throat, stubborn as ever and unwilling to leave the roof of his mouth. it was followed immediately by another wave of pink petals, but angel's eyes are wide and transfixed upon the buds of the spiderlily. alastor wipes his mouth, quirks a brow, and through a smile says, "what?"

"spiderlilies," angel says, then laughs half-hysterically, almost in disbelief, "they're uh- death. they're death flowers. 'sposed to be death related. i dunno. fuck. fuck."

angel has a panic attack about the idea that alastor might die. it's all alastor can do not to hug him hard enough that his spine snaps in half.

hanahaki disease.

a rare thing, formed in some cases of unrequited love. the afflicted will cough up flower petals day by day, with the amount increasing and the damage to their lungs getting worse as roots begin to burrow into their respiratory tracts. as they begin to cough spiderlilies, they reach the end of their life. the only known cure is a genuine, true confession of love from the object of the sufferer's affections.

it's a gentle thing. it doesn't hurt alastor as much as he expected it to. it comes with fear, and then apathetic acceptance. it comes with the knowledge that he had let his guard down, and fallen into the trap he had spent many years teaching himself how to avoid. romance wasn't something he'd ever been interested in. but he'd begun to find that, no matter how much his presence caused pain, he'd yearn for angel's voice whenever he left the room. it was miserable. alastor spent a lot of time talking himself out of the idea.

and now, confronted with the reality? there was nothing else for him to do but accept it. he had nowhere to run anymore.

when angel comes into his room, alastor looks at his eyes. and then his outfit. and then the patterns on his skin, and the little extra pupils beneath his lower lashline. the pink probably should have tipped him off. angel shuts the door, locks it silently, and takes a moment before walking over to the chair that alastor is sitting in. the fireplace in front of it is warm. 

angel kneels down onto the floor, and rests his head on the arm of alastor's chair. alastor looks at him with confusion, smile never wavering. 

"is there something you need, my dear?" he asks, voice strained as he tries desperately to hold back the impending coughing fit. angel doesn't look at him.

it takes him a long moment to respond, eyes affixed firmly on the fire that blazes in front of them, "you're one a' the only people who's ever treated me like a person down here, y'know."

alastor removes his gaze, instead looking in angel's same direction, "ah. well, i don't have the slightest idea why that is. you're marvelous company when you want to be, angel."

angel laughs. his voice breaks. he digs his hand into alastor's sleeve, and buries his face against the arm of the chair as he sobs into the fabric. alastor can't do anything but let him, because he can't bring himself to make him go. not anymore.

"fuck. fuck. fuck me. fuck this. fuck you. i hate you so much," angel sounds lie he's choking on his own tears, and alastor's chest aches, "you did this to me, motherfucker. i'm- i'm a mess an' it's all your fault. ti amo. ti amo tanto."

he can't process it for a long, long moment. the liquid in his chest slowly clears. alastor feels his nose start to bleed. he reaches for angel's hand to pull him from his feet and send him stumbling right into alastor, where he buries his face against his shoulder and sobs into alastor's clothes. alastor holds him close enough that it feels like he wants to merge their beings.

"thank you, ange. mon ange chéri."

**Author's Note:**

> listen to the spine song by cake bake betty or else


End file.
